The words had barely left Rorge's mouth when a figure stepped out from behind him.
He looked to be in his early fifties, hair gray but neatly combed, wearing a deep-blue velvet coat with a crossed warhammer sigil on his chest.
He brought only one young squire, yet the quiet confidence in his stride instantly changed the atmosphere in the hall.
Commoners automatically cleared a path. They might not recognize Lord Leek's face, but they knew the clothes. They knew the walk.
Petyr's smile froze for a split second before he forced it back into place.
Corleone noticed. With [Insight Lv3], it was easy.
The corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped forward. "Welcome, Lord Leek."
"Good evening, Ser Corleone."
Lord Raynald Leek studied him for a moment, eyes lingering on the black hand sigil. He gave a small nod. "Thank you for the invitation. Honestly, I wasn't planning to come."
"You know how it is—places like Flea Bottom don't usually see nobles."
"True, my lord," Petyr said smoothly, sliding in beside them. "I'm surprised to see you here at all. Last time we met on the Street of Silk, you said this kind of place 'dirtied your boots.'"
His tone was light, almost teasing, but Lord Leek didn't take the bait. He simply accepted a cup of wine from his squire's tray and swirled it slowly.
"People change, Lord Baelish."
After a moment he looked up at Corleone. "Take my son Herb. Two months ago he was just another spoiled brat pulling steel over whores on the Street of Silk. Now he trains every morning, studies ledgers in the afternoon, and reads the Genealogy of the Noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms at night."
"I asked him what happened. He said, 'Father, I met a man in the dungeons. He told me a man can act like a fool until he's twenty-five. After that, it's not youth—it's stupidity.'"
Lord Leek actually bowed his head slightly toward Corleone. "Thank you for the lesson, Ser Corleone."
Corleone returned the nod with quiet humility. "Ser Herb was already clever. He just needed direction."
"I can see he'll go far. He'll carry the Leek name with honor."
Lord Leek laughed, genuinely pleased. "Your advice works. At least now he won't duel someone over a whore. Real progress!"
Petyr was genuinely surprised by the warmth. House Leek wasn't as grand as the Lannisters or Tyrells, but they had deep roots and wide influence. Most importantly, they stayed neutral—never picking sides.
Yet here was Lord Leek openly praising a knight of common birth. It made no sense.
"Ser Corleone does have a gift for… guidance," Petyr said, forcing another smile. "When I was Master of Coin I gave plenty of young nobles advice myself. Take Ser Thorne's eldest son—I told him to study at the Citadel. He's an assistant maester now."
The comment fell flat. Few people in the room even knew House Thorne, and those who did weren't impressed.
Petyr didn't seem bothered. He kept smiling anyway.
"Speaking of advice," Lord Leek finally turned to face Petyr directly. "Do you remember that deal three years ago, Lord Baelish? The shipment of Myrish lace?"
The hall quieted a little. Most of the guests were merchants. They all knew Myrish lace—light as spider silk, vivid colors that never faded. One of the most valuable imports in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Of course I remember," Petyr answered smoothly, expression unchanged. "It was a tragedy. I lost five hundred gold dragons. Every last one."
"Is that so?" Lord Leek took a slow sip. "Because I heard that shipment never even left port."
Lord Leek's voice was calm, but the words landed like stones.
Petyr's smile stayed perfect. "My lord, you do enjoy a joke. The ship was attacked near the Stepstones. The captain and crew washed up on Tidehead Isle. There are records."
"Sea trade is risky. Ships sink. Cargoes are lost. That's just how it goes."
Lord Leek set his cup down hard enough that the glass rang against the bar. "At least my five thousand gold dragons sank properly, Baelish. I'm still curious how your five hundred somehow turned into a profit—and a very large one."
The accusation was naked.
Petyr felt eyes on him from every direction. He couldn't afford to lose his temper here. Arguing would only make him look guilty.
"Business is a mysterious thing," he said with a strained chuckle. "Maybe I got lucky. Or maybe… the Seven smiled on me."
"The Seven do smile on certain people," Lord Leek said coldly. He turned back to Corleone. "So listen to me, Ser Corleone. When you do business, choose your partners carefully. Stay away from thieves and liars."
Corleone nodded seriously. "There are a lot of thieves and liars in King's Landing these days, my lord. I'll be careful. Thank you for the warning."
Petyr's face burned, but years of practice kept it from showing.
Still… how the hell had Corleone gotten so close to Raynald Leek?
Just because he'd shared a cell with the man's idiot son for a few days and fed him some nonsense about responsibility?
Before Petyr could recover, the doors opened again.
Rorge's massive frame pushed through the crowd, looking even more like a bear that had wandered into a beehive. Every head turned.
"Ser Corleone!" he roared. "Lady Falyse Stokeworth and Ser Balman Byrch have arrived!"
Two figures appeared in the doorway.
Ser Balman Byrch walked in front—newly appointed to keep order in Flea Bottom. Tonight he wore a fresh dark-yellow coat that strained slightly over his belly, but he moved with surprising energy, face split in a wide grin.
Behind him came his wife, Lady Falyse Stokeworth.
Petyr knew her far too well.
Eldest daughter of House Stokeworth. Heir to Lady Tanda. Famous across King's Landing for being sharp-tongued, jealous, and violently temperamental.
Tonight she wore a deep-red velvet gown with a heavy collar of pearls—very expensive, very loud.
But Petyr noticed something odd. The moment she stepped inside, her eyes locked straight onto Corleone.
And the look in them… was not normal.
"Congratulations, Ser Corleone!"
Ser Balman strode forward and seized Corleone's hand with both of his, almost bowing. "You're incredible! From commoner to knight in less than two months—it's a miracle!"
"You're too kind, Ser," Corleone said warmly. "The work you've done keeping Flea Bottom safe is the real achievement. I hear crime dropped another thirty percent last week."
"That's because you laid such a strong foundation!"
"Nonsense, Ser. That's pure skill on your part!"
The two men traded compliments while Petyr fought the urge to roll his eyes. Then Lady Falyse stepped forward and curtsied with perfect grace.
"Ser Corleone~~"
Her voice was so sweet it made Petyr's skin crawl.
He blinked. Was this really Falyse Stokeworth? The woman who could scream for an hour because a servant broke a cup? The one who threatened to jump off the roof if her husband so much as looked at another woman?
Impossible.
But reality didn't care what Petyr thought.
Falyse finished her curtsy and gazed at Corleone with unmistakable warmth. "My mother is still unwell and couldn't come in person. She asked me to apologize on her behalf."
"Lady Tanda is too gracious," Corleone replied with a small bow. "Please tell her I'll visit soon to treat her. I've been working on a new formula that helps with joint pain in the elderly."
Falyse's eyes lit up instantly. "Truly? Her rheumatism has plagued her for years. The maesters have given up. If you can help her… House Stokeworth will owe you a great debt."
"I'll do my best, my lady."
Clever.
Petyr had to admit it. Healing the sick was the cleanest, most irresistible way to bind people to you.
Falyse seemed to notice Petyr's stare. She turned, and the sweetness vanished like it had never existed. Her face became the cold, sharp mask Petyr remembered.
"Good evening, Lord Baelish. You're here too. How… convenient. You turn up everywhere."
She had clearly wanted to say "unfortunate," but stopped herself.
Petyr gave her his most charming smile—the one that usually worked on noblewomen.
"Good evening, Lady Falyse. You look radiant tonight. Your skin is positively glowing."
"Is that so?" Falyse touched her cheek and smiled sweetly. "Maybe it's because I haven't done business with you lately. I've been sleeping so much better."
The words were poison wrapped in silk.
Petyr's smile cracked. But Falyse wasn't finished.
"You remember that shipment of Lys perfume last year, my lord? You swore it would make us rich. I invested a thousand gold dragons. And what happened? The ship sank in a storm. Every last drop."
Petyr opened his mouth, but she didn't give him a chance.
"When you do business," she said, turning back to Corleone with that warm smile again, "you really should choose partners with character. Some people smile to your face while planning to steal your last copper behind your back."
"Of course, my lady," Corleone said, fighting to keep a straight face. He was struggling—hard. He could feel Jaime upstairs laughing so much he could barely stand.
"I'll remember your words, my lady. I won't let anyone take advantage of me."
Petyr felt his cheek twitch. Not a metaphor. An actual twitch.
How the hell had Corleone gotten close to Falyse Stokeworth too?
When Petyr first arrived in King's Landing he had pulled a few fast ones to raise capital—only a few, he swore. And somehow two of the victims had become friends with Corleone?
At least Corleone had only been in the city a short time. This had to be the limit of his connections. If any more arrived, this "celebration" was going to turn into a full-blown Petyr Baelish denunciation meeting.
Petyr quickly lifted his cup and pretended to drink, desperate to change the subject.
But from the corner of his eye he saw the doors open again.
Rorge was back.
Petyr's heart jumped.
The noseless man shoved through the crowd, face twisted with excitement.
He opened his mouth and bellowed:
"Ser Corleone! Ser Addam Marbrand, Commander of the City Watch, has arrived!"